


Mysterio’s Sinister Six Ring Circus

by 9th_Pawn



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Historical, Boxer Rebellion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9th_Pawn/pseuds/9th_Pawn
Summary: Wade Wilson is a disfigured veteran and merchant sailor who gets dragged to the circus during his shore leave in Oakland. Not every journey starts willingly or in the most obvious of places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work takes place in the year 1903 and as such uses certain place names that were common during the time but no culturally appropriate. Likewise the views of the characters regarding certain historical events, professions, ect. are not indicative of the authors views.  
I would like to thank my beta reader MsCaptainWinchester  
The Opening quote is by Scott Lobdell, Excalibur Vol 1 #71  
You can read my thoughts on comics past and present at wehavebackissuesblog.tumblr.com

“Odd how even in the face of tragedy, there are often such wonders—such miracles—to be found”

-_ Kurt Wagner, Herr Getmann’s Traveling Menagerie _

December 1903

Climbing the stairs up to the deck of the freighter _ Maiden of Madripoor _, Wade found it hard to remember what time it was supposed to be. Both the sky and the sea were draped in a grey that could have been either dawn or dusk. It didn’t help matters that the gold watch he won playing cards in Shanghai had been lost in a cock fight in Manilla. Truth be told it didn’t really matter what time it was. Wade had nobody waiting for him on either side of the Pacific. Pulling his hat down low and collar up high, Wade let the cold wind push him down the gangplank and into town. 

At the entrance of the port, a young boy no more then ten stood on a crate shouting at passers by. “Oakland Tribune here! Only 5 cents! Carnage in Chicago! Only 5 cents!” As if spotting an easy mark, the urchin hopped down from his crate and shoved a paper into Wade’s hands. “Hey mister, you hear me? Big trouble in the Windy City! Only a nickel!” The child’s aggressively plucky demeanor fell away as soon as his lifted his eyes and saw Wade’s face. The burns were extensive enough that most adults couldn’t help but flinch, children couldn’t help but comment. “You know what, mister, this one is on the house.” Nearly tripping over his own feet to get away, the child returned to his perch. 

Looking down , the paper’s headline read, “Awful Panic in Theater: 500 burned in Chicago”. Without warning, Wade’s mind immediately flashed back to a bar in Peking. The early summer heat had put a thirst in soldiers from across the Eight-Nation Alliance. Wade sat close to the bar with Kota, a Japanese Officer he had befriended weeks earlier in a nearly identical foreign quarter tavern. Both men were more than four drinks into their night when Kota became determined to teach Wade some game involving tiles and symbols. 

The next two drinks hadn’t helped the lessons go smoother, but they made the laughter the two men shared loud enough that they didn’t initially notice the commotion at the door. A Boxer firebomb had quickly engulfed the entrance of the building in flames. The normally disciplined soldiers were drunk and panicked. In the ensuing chaos, the comrades crawled over each other to get out. Smoke, flames, and men poured out of the building that night. Not a single man was left unscarred. For many, that night would be seared into their memory, their last thought even as they lay dying as old men. Others, like Wade, would carry that memory seared into their flesh and be greeted with it every morning.

From over his shoulder came a voice, “Goddamn! Sounds like a terrible way to die”. 

Without turning, Wade simply muttered, “You know, Weasel, it’s also a fucking terrible way to live.” Tossing the paper onto the curb, Wade asked, “Where’s Dopinder? I thought we were getting a drink?” Some ways behind Weasel, a wiry Indian man struggled to drag three drab khaki seabags down the wharf. Shouting over the din, Wade called out, “Dopinder, what did I say about the bags?”

With a deep frown, Dopinder shook his head as if explaining a simple concept to a particularly slow pet. “If we leave our bags on the ship, they will be alone with those unsavory fellows.” 

Wade grabbed his bag from his struggling shipmate and responded, “I don't know if you noticed, but I am an unsavory fellow. Weasel is unsavory fellow. _ You _ are an unsavory fellow. Savory fellows aren't hired onto _ The Maiden _.'' 

But Dopinder was no longer paying attention. Wade turned to find him frozen in place, mouth agape in front of a poster being stuck to the port entrance by a man with a large paste pot. In bright red letters the poster announced, “Mysterio’s Six Ring Science Circus! The Greatest Show west of the Mississippi!” 

Now quivering with excitement, Dopinder looked all of ten years old. Squeaking in excitement, he turned to them and shouted, “WADE, WEASEL, LOOK! CLOWNS! TAKE ME TO SEE THE CLOWNS!” 

Weasel was unfazed and unwavered by his shipmate’s excitement. “No, we’re finding a bar. Or a brothel. Or, if possible, a brothel with a bar. But I am not spending my shore time at a damn circus!” 

Sticking his chin out in defiance, Dopinder stomped his foot. “No! We are going to see the clowns. I love clowns!” 

Hungover and impatient, Wade asked, “Dopinder, when have you ever even seen a clown before?” 

A frustrated Dopinder raised his gaze and looked off into the middle distance. .“I have never seen a clown, Wade. Never in my life. As a little boy in Delhi, I would hear the stories the soldiers would tell of the circus and the funny men who would make them all laugh. I wanted to make people laugh, but the people would only shout at me. ‘Dopinder, shine my boots! Dopinder, watch your sister! Dopinder, leave the bags!’ Nobody was ever happy to see me, not like they were to see the clowns. Imagine living your whole life wanting to see something and never getting to. I want to smile and laugh and see the clowns!”

Wide-eyed and taken aback, both Wade and Weasel stood speechlessly staring at their passionate friend. It was Wade who broke the uneasy silence by turning to Weasel. “Maybe there’s a brothel at the circus?” 

Sensing his opening, Dopinder spun on his heels to face the scrawny man and his paste pot. “Sir, which way to the clowns?” 

Looking up from his work, the man wiped the sweat from his brow with his oversized purple cap and smiled, “My good mariners, if it is only clowns you are after, ours are the best clowns in show business, but this show has so much more than just clowns! We have jungle beasts and mechanical marvels! Men who can tear down buildings and light up cities! Daredevils who know no fear and smile at doom!””

This last point came with a proudly raised chin and thumbs stuck into the green suspenders of his overalls. “Just follow this road for a mile. and you will find all that your hearts could desire.” And with a sly glance to Weasel, he added in a low tone, “And if you fancy a ‘dance partner’ for the evening, go to the green tent and tell them Pete sent you.” 

***

A mile from port and what little light was left had faded into evening. At the end of the street torch light cast bright halos around the towering peaked tents of the circus. The sound of calliope music, laughter, and the roars exotic beasts pulled the men forward like moths. The normally drab warehouse district has been temporarily transformed by a small city of colorful wagons and tents erected in a vacant lot. At the gate, the Barker directed the growing crowd into the large central tent. 

The men purchased their tickets, and Wade quickly led them to the very back row. Even the excited Dopinder knew better than to argue, even though many closer seats were available. Taking work at sea and avoiding all but the seediest seaside establishments, where folks knew how to keep to themselves, Wade had spent the last three years doing his best to avoid the horrified gaze of strangers. 

On the bleachers below them, men with dirty faces and colorful shirts sold sweets and popcorn to the growing audience. The large tent swelled with people of all kinds and classes. Wade could not remember a time he saw such a wide variety of people all gathered together. As the poster described, the middle of the tent was occupied by six great rings with a small red platform in the center. 

The lights dimmed as the last few audience members found their seats. Hidden drums began to beat a heavy pounding rhythm, and the central platform was lit up by a bright spotlight. The top of the platform slid open and a thick fog began to billow out and cover the floor of the tent.

From that boiling fog arrose the ringmaster. Clad in tall black leather boots that led into a pair of brilliant green jodhpurs, his long plum wool coat was done up in twenty shiny, brass buttons, the shoulders topped by great golden epaulettes. All this paled in comparison to the stunning glass globe that he wore on his head. Before long, his ascent came to a halt, and as he thrust his arms skyward, the drumming stopped. A voice rang out throughout the tent. “Welcome to Mysterio’s Six Ring Science Circus! Gentlemen, hold your women and children tight as you behold Kraven the Tamer and his Wonders of the Jungle!” 

The three sailors watched the crowd ohh and ahh as a bare-chested man in leopard print pants cracked his whip at all manner of jungle cat. As the show progressed, the audience was next treated to Aleksie the Human Rhinoceros, who was able to bench press two circus wagons. A man named Otto turned into a mechanical octopus and juggled 30 flaming pins. The Electric Man, Max Dillon, made many in the audience faint from fear of his living lightning. 

Weasel only perked up when the knife thrower took the stage. Billed as “the Most Dangerous Man from Down Under,” Boomerang was not a man overflowing in charisma. His assistant, “the Woman with Nine Lives” was a much different story.

Every man and more than a few women in that tent would have dreams of the silver-haired beauty for weeks afterward. With soft grey eyes and a figure that filled the black velvet catsuit, Felicia Hardy moved with the fluid grace usually reserved for a ballerina. Or a tiger. Boomerang threw blade after blade at Felicia without eliciting so much as a flinch. Felicia’s calm stood in stark contrast to the wild gesticulations of Boomerang, who drew each blade with a flourish. 

The crowd held its collective breath as the blades drew closer and closer to their vulnerable target. Tension built as the act progressed. The blades inched closer and closer with each progressive throw. With the audience on the edge of their seats, Boomerang called out for the grand finale to be brought to the center of the tent. 

Two graceful white horses with feathered headpieces entered the bigtop, slowly pulling a wagon behind them. On the wagon stood a garishly decorated wheel, seven feet in diameter, balanced between two kneeling, bare-chested men. Felicia hopped up onto the wheel with the ease of a bored alley cat. Even under many layers of paint, Wade could see the scars of previous performances. Deep ruts where steel had splintered wood. Assistants affixed Felicia’s wrists and ankles securely to the edge of the wheel and began to spin her counterclockwise.

The rhythm of the drums built like an excited heartbeat. Boomerang fanned out 6 daggers in each hand, making sure to catch the light in the bright, polished steel. For a moment, the tent was still except for the steady revolution of the wheel and its defenseless prisoner. 

Quicker than Wade’s eyes could detect, the blades flew from Boomerang’s hand. Gasps filled the tent as blade after blade came within a hair’s breadth of the spinning woman. The final blade hit the wheel with a heavy thud. The crowd gave a cheer that was a mixture of respect and relief. 

Weasel leaned in and whispered to Wade, “That last one nicked her ear. Did you see the blood?” The now bowing woman’s hair covered her ears, but squinting, Wade could make out a small lock of silver hair and a few drops of blood on the wheel.

Through a great red megaphone, the ringmaster gleefully announced the March of the Clowns. Bouncing in his seat like a child, Dopinder turned to Wade and Weasel with a giant smile and said, “Thank you for this!” 

Wade gave a silent nod, while Weasel gruffly muttered, “it’s not a brothel, but it isn’t as bad as I thought.” Cheerful music filled the tent and a troop of jaunty clowns filed in, led by a suspiciously familiar clown dressed in a slouchy purple hat and green overalls. Men with grease paint smiles, huge floppy shoes, and colorful wigs started their comedy act.

From his left, Wade could hear a small whine that built louder and louder like a tea kettle, until the shriek began to drown out the music. Turning, Wade saw Dopinder’s face frozen in wide-eyed terror. Even as Weasel reached out to cover Dopinder’s mouth, the scream was only dampened a little. Weasel angrily whispered loud enough for Wade to hear, “What the hell are you doing?” 

Ripping Weasel’s hand away, Dopinder pointed an accusing finger at the clowns. “What are those...Monsters! Where are the clowns?!” 

Wade and Weasel exchanged confused looks, before Wade finally said, “Those are the clowns.” 

Unconvinced, Dopinder stood up. “Clowns are not funny. These things aren't funny. They’re _ monsters. _” He then began to spit at the nearest clowns. “Go away, monster! No one wants you here!” 

Drunken boos began to rain on Dopinder as the nearby crowd became upset at this disruption to there show. Wade noticed that more and more clowns had begun to surround their area. While their mouths were smiling, their eyes were very much not. Grabbing his friend by the shoulders, Weasel quickly began to walk Dopinder to the door. “Come on, buddy, let's check out this green tent I’ve been hearing about.” Wade had no appetite for whores. They would all take his money but even the best would wince and turn at his kiss. 

With Weasel and Dopinder gone, the agitation again turned to laughter as the clowns finished their act. One by one, the Clowns bowed and bounced out of the tent.

For the final time Mysterio stood in front of the audience. The lights dimmed as he introduced the final act with an ominous flourish. “Ladies and Gentlemen, before I introduce our final act, out of Christian concern and courtesy, I must deliver a warning to all gathered. The danger our next performer faces far exceeds what any sane man would attempt. In the past, this act has made healthy men develop apoplexy. Pregnant women have gone into labor, and others have been induced into delirium. I beg you. If you are of weakened constitution, please leave this tent with haste.” He paused with a dramatic look at the entrance, as if waiting for those who might take his advice to heart. No one stood. 

“For those brave enough to remain, let me introduce you to our next performer. Our man on the high wire works without fear or the safety of a net. He is a man who has shown such gross defiance of death that we must hide his face and name, lest the Reaper try and collect from his next of kin. Without further delay, may I present the Sensational Spider-Man!”

With a turn and wave of his hand, Mysterio directed the spotlight to a lithe man in blue tights and a red silk vest embroidered with a black spider on the back. The Spider-Man’s lower face was covered by a red bandana that reminded Wade of a dime novel gunfighter. Peeking out between the bandana and a mop of wavy brown hair were a pair of bright brown eyes. 

Silence descended over the tent as the Spider-Man began his ascent up one of the great center poles holding up the tent without the aid of rope or ladder. The natural ease with which the Spider-Man scaled the pole reminded Wade of monkeys he had seen in Jakarta. 

Forty feet up the pole was a small circular platform with a tight rope connecting it to another of the great tent support poles. Craning their necks, the audience watched his ascent with bated breath. The tent was so silent that the subtle vibration of the tight rope could be heard even by those below. Even those few who scoffed at Mysterio’s earlier warning now covered their mouths at the reality of the danger.

Flashing a sly wink to the crowd, the Spider-Man took one shaky step out onto the wire. Each successive step added more and more wobble. His arms were outstretched and tilting back and forth like a bird fighting the wind. A stern man in a suit a row in front of Wade began hyperventilating. Reaching the center of the tightrope, Spider-Man was bouncing and wildly pitching back and forth. His doom appeared certain, and many below covered their eyes or averted their gaze. Others held their breath, sure they were witnessing a man's last moments among the living.

As if blown by an invisible wind, Spider-Man was forced backward to the point that only one foot was now in contact with the rope. His arms windmilled in vain for some safe purchase. With a final TWANG Spider-Man was in free fall. Twisting like a cat falling from a tree, the man in the red mask flailed out for the rope. The fingers of his right hand could not bridge the gap. Only the pinkie finger of his left hand contacted the vibrating tight rope. Piercing screams rang out as mothers covered the eyes of their children. 

Wade’s eyes immediately scanned the ground for impact, but none followed. Screams faded into confusion, as it took a moment for the audience to realize that Spider-Man was gently swinging on the tightrope by his pinkie, cheerfully waving to the crowd below. As he swung himself back up onto the rope with ease, the act began in earnest. 

For the next 20 minutes the audience was treated to an indescribable display of acrobatics and highwire daring. Years later, historians would write off reports of the act as the tall tales of a simpler age. But on that night and in that tent, not a single person could look or think about anything other than the Spider-Man. Wade thought that “Sensational” was too small a word for the feats he witnessed. But his prairie schoolhouse education failed to provide him with anything better to label the performance. The only thing he could think of that came close was how the great patriarchs of the Bible must have felt when they met with angels. 

Only once the Spider-Man was on the ground and the danger had passed, did Wade notice a dull ache . Every muscle in his body had been tensed during the performance, as if it was he who had been in danger. It was a sensation he had only previously experienced in combat or sailing through typhoons. 

With the show now over, the audience began to file down the stands and out of the tent. A group of workers began to clean up the remains of popcorn and beer bottles left behind. Wade sat dumbstruck by what he had just seen. After the Boxer war, he had given up on the idea of surprises being pleasant. For the better part of three years, Wade had gone on living more or less out of habit. On the ship, he did his work out of a commitment to his crew mates. When in port, Wade let Dopinder and Weasel drag him to all manner of unsavory distraction so as not to be left alone with his own thoughts. In that moment, Wade struggled to categorize what he was feeling. It had moved past joy into something resembling relief? Could a soul actually exhale? 

Before Wade was able to probe any deeper into these emotions, he was interrupted by a man lazily sweeping up trash below him. “It’s a look like yours that makes this job worth the two bits it pays.” 

Too thrown to muster a response, Wade simply sifted his stare to the rough-looking man who was now leaning on his broom. The man had plucked a half smoked cigar up off the ground and proceeded to light it with a package of matches fished from one of the many pockets of his dirty denim overalls. “Don’t get me wrong, this gig has plenty-o-benefits, but none of them come close to watching some mark getting the courage up to make the jump., Doesn’t happen nearly as often as the townies like to say.” 

Tossing his jacket over his shoulder, Wade quickly jogged down the bleacher steps. “I have no clue what you're talking about, but you enjoy that stogie”. Over his shoulder Wade could hear the man chuckle and reply, “You don’t yet, but you will. Don't you worry.”

Wade spilled out of the now quiet tent onto the bustling midway lined on both sides by colorful booths offering games and distractions of all sorts. In a haze, Wade wandered into this veritable city of amusements. There were weight guessers, snake oil salesmen, and games of both skill and chance. Each booth was manned by a worker who teased, cajoled, or insulted people into engaging with them. The entire scene was a chaotic mess of laughing, shouting, and jangly piano music. A thousand little dramas were playing out in front of him. The embarrassed boyfriend unable to win a prize for his lady. The wife upset by her husband’s wandering gaze in front of the dancing girl tent. The group of singing men who swayed drunkenly arm in arm. Wade found that a smile had inexplicably spread across his face, and he became keenly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he smiled till it hurt. 

A familiar piercing scream echoed through the midway. Whatever Wade had been thinking was forced out by the urgency to make his way to the scream’s source. Elbowing his way through the crowd, Wade came to a green tent at the very far end of the grounds. Bursting through the front of the tent came Dopinder, followed shortly afterward by Weasel, who was hurriedly pulling on his clothes. 

Wade grabbed the inconsolable Dopinder by the shoulders and gave him a rough shake to stop the screaming. “Dopinder what’s wrong? What happened?” 

With his eyes wide, Dopinder gasped for breath. “They were...They were...They were...” 

But before he could answer Wade, Weasel joyfully interjected. “Clowns! They were lady clowns. Very friendly lady clowns.” 

Wade couldn’t tell if Weasel was smiling or if it was a trick of the red and white grease paint smeared all over his face and neck. With the magic of the past few hours now shattered, Wade slung Dopinder’s exhausted arm over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get back to the ship.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“It’s tempting to want to live in the past. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable. But it’s where fossils come from”

\-  _ Capt. Steven Rodgers letter to President Lincoln, Gettysburg 1863 _

Peter could still hear the crowd roaring behind him, demanding an encore, as he made his way from the Big Top across the back of the yard to the dressing tent. Even though he had been with the troupe for less than a year, he had earned his place closing out the show. Only Kraven had ever really complained about it, but Kraven’s main hobby was discovering new things to be disrespected by, so Peter didn’t let the criticism get to him. Peter’s mind drifted to the image of Kraven, dressed in a lab coat, holding up a beaker for examination, “My investigation has found this compound to be DISRESPECTFUL!”

The daydream was cut short by the hairs on Peter’s neck standing at attention and an unconscious muscle spasm that pulled him left, just centimeters away from a dagger thrown from inside the tent. Following close behind was Fred “Boomerang” Myers and close behind him the rough curses of Felicia Hardy. “I swear to Christ, Fred, if I ever see your amateur ass in this circus again, I will dice you, fry you, and serve you to the marks for a penny a pound!” Her final curse was punctuated with another dagger that spun out from her hand and split the very top of Fred’s ear. “Consider that your final payment, ya bush leaguer!” Now standing at the mouth of the tent, Felicia let out loose a final huff before turning to Peter and holding open the tent flap to let him pass. “You wouldn’t happen to know a half-way decent knife thrower, would you, Parker? Mine came down with a bad case of incompetence.” 

Carefully sliding past Felicia, Peter picked his way past the random assortment of mirrors, clothes lines, and ad hoc workbenches. “Sorry, Felicia, I would ask the roustabouts, but they’re all terrified of you.” At the far end of the tent, Peter flopped down onto his trunk and began to pull off his sweat-soaked shirt. Even in the dead of winter, the big top felt like an oven up high. 

Peeking his round nose over the top of his German language newspaper, Otto whispered, “That woman is an unholy terror. They say she was Annie Oakley’s best student, but I know for a fact she is the only person ole Annie ever shot at in anger.” 

Wiping the sweat from his face with his shirt, Peter smirked. “Otto, I thought you said there was no such thing as ‘facts’ when it came to lot gossip?” 

With a huff, Otto shook out his newspaper and went back to reading. Without looking up, he simply added, “You know, Parker, I really wish you would let the Doc take a look at those blisters of yours.” 

Looking down at his hands, Peter examined the raw red blisters forming on what were otherwise smooth young hands. “I don’t want to bother the Doc. Besides, you know he prefers to be left alone after a performance.” Peter failed to mention that both he and the Doc knew there was nothing to be done about the blisters. Peter’s unique “condition” had many benefits, immunity to abrasions wasn’t one of them. While it let him heal quicker than normal, it did nothing to prevent his hands from being torn apart by the rough ropes and wires essential to his act. 

Hopping up to his feet, Peter undid his dyed red leather belt and pushed his tight wool pants down to his feet. It had only been four days since wash day, but the smell was already becoming more than Peter could bare. As he pinned his costume to a nearby line to dry, Peter imagined that Aunt May would have had some choice words about his shortcomings with a washboard. Laundry was just one of the many skills he had been forced to leave home without learning. Had Aunt May had her way, Peter would have been attending Empire State University and getting round on her cooking. Then again the man who had killed his uncle Ben had failed to consult May or Peter on the turn he was about to force on their lives. 

Squatting down, Peter undid the brass latch on his battered brown leather steamer trunk. Lifting the lid, his eyes landed first, as always, on the yellowed label pasted inside reading, “Property of B.Parker, Kurtzberg Circus, Winter Quarters Coney Island, NY.” Peter had only ever known his uncle as a hard-working respectable tailor. The photo of a young rakish Ben and demure May tacked to the inside lid of the trunk came from a time before Peter. Ben and May never directly avoided talking about their past, but instead treated it as a type of inside joke that Peter was too young to ever appreciate. Just the thought that Ben Parker, the man who made the Sunday best for a quarter of Queens, had learned his craft sewing for clowns and dancing girls was simply ridiculous. To think that the man would have given the toast at every church picnic, neighborhood wedding, and holiday dinner had cut his teeth barking marks into circus tents was too fantastic to fathom. Not Peter’s boring old uncle Ben. 

Rifling through his truck, Peter retrieved his “work clothes”. A pair of dark indigo denim pants, a heavily patched tight black wool sweater, and a black bandana with a white paisley pattern. After dressing hurriedly, Peter dove once more into his truck, searching for the old pine cigar box that held his web shooters. Each unsuccessful second increased the ferocity of his search. 

Curious about the commotion, Otto once more peeked over his paper to see the young Parker crawling about on the straw covered floor as though he had lost a needle in a haystack. “Parker what exactly are you doing?”

“I can’t find my shooters. Have you seen them?” 

Otto shot Peter an irritated squint and muttered a number of unintelligible curses under his breath. “You are unbelievable, Parker. Yes, I saw them this morning when you handed them to me and asked for me to examine their trigger mechanism. I promptly examined them, made a number of small improvements, and provided you with detailed notes regarding said alterations. You will find them and that raggedy box of yours sitting safely on my workbench.”

Scrambling to his feet, Peter ran to Otto’s work bench like a child approaching the tree on Christmas morning. Placed neatly atop the box were a series detailed notes that included materials used, gear ratios, and a decidedly aggressive maintenance schedule. In typical Otto fashion it was both far more than Peter asked for and somehow found a way to make schematics come off as condescending. “Otto, this is brilliant! Adding a weighted rotor to rewind the trigger spring after use! How do you even think of it?” 

Lifting himself out of his chair, the much older Otto moved over to the workbench. “Well, they are quite clever contraptions. I think they just needed a fresh pair of eyes. Perhaps a set that hadn’t spent all evening out on the town.” Peter clenched his jaw and ignored the comment hoping to avoid any further conversation about his hobbies.

“You know the circus has always welcomed those with unconventional habits and appetites. But, you come back every morning covered in bruises. The Doc mentioned that he has had to stitch you up three times last week alone. Not to mention, I am fairly sure you had a concussion when we last spoke this morning. You are a smart young man and your business is your business. But I am worried about you, Peter.” 

Turning to Otto, Peter feigned a wide, easy smile and flippant attitude. “Otto, I am a young man out seeing the world. Nothing more. I like to go out dancing and sometimes my dancing partners have angry husbands. It ‘s all very healthy and appropriate behavior for a handsome gentleman looking to sow his oats on the road.” In truth Peter had only ever danced twice before. Once was a lesson with Aunt May in the family room. The other an awkward three minutes with Gwen Stacy on the Fourth of July with Captain Stacy’s entire department looking on. Neither event had inspired much jealousy in onlookers, married or otherwise. 

Deception was not Peter’s strong suit; even the smallest of lies gave him knots in his stomach. But the alternative was admitting that every night he drills his fists into any and every suspicious person he can find. Throwing himself over and over into danger because even after a year, all he dreams about is seeing Ben shot. His uncle’s blood spilling across the sidewalk, flooding the web of cracks in the concrete and dripping into the rusted iron storm drain. The sensation of holding a heavy limp corpse. No promised feeling of heavenly grace, just white hot unquenchable rage. 

As Otto paused to weigh the benefits of pushing his point, Peter capitalized on the silence to grab his gear and make his way toward the exit. The circus folk were prone to drama, and sooner or later Otto would find something else to draw his ire or intrigue. Orthodox Christmas was only a week away and easy money was on Kraven and Rhino making some sort of drunken fuss that would draw the heat off of Peter. 

His route off the lot took Peter past the gently flapping red and yellow banners of the sideshow. Huge sweeping block letters promised “Barton Brothers Sword Swallowers!”. Another advertised “Infernal Antiquities and Haunting Curiosities.” None however was larger or more elaborate than the one reading “Beware the Alligator Man of Okefenokee Swamp ''. Peter was forced to cover his mouth to hide his laughter from the few remaining marks milling about the entrance. If only they knew that the swords the Bartons used were about as dull as the brothers themselves. Or that most of the “curiosities” were jars of pickled animals parts from Kraven’s various hunts. As for the Alligator Man, well, sometimes the circus over-delivered. 

It was late and the last of the families were beating a hasty pace down the gas lit streets. The evening air wasn’t particularly cold for a boy raised within spitting distance of the North Atlantic, but Peter had spent enough time in California to know this was probably colder than most of the locals could stand. By rights, the circus should already be bedded down at their winter quarters over in Santa Cruz. 

When word had gotten around that they would be doing a three-nights stand in Oakland during New Years, all the usual suspects made a fuss. But Quinten Beck explained that the mayor of Oakland was angling for reelection and wanted a big splashy on the minds of the voters. In fact, the owner of the circus had booked the show personally and sent word to Beck via telegram. That tidbit of information shut up even the most habitual of complainers. You could bitch and moan at Ringmaster Beck all day and night, level all manner of cruel insults at him, his family, or his dog with little consequence, but around ownership, you stood-up straight and averted your eyes. Ownership wasn’t circus folk. Ownership was real money, old money and you paid deference or you disappeared. 

Once he was a few blocks out from the lot and the crowds had dwindled down to the odd couple cuddling for warmth, Peter ducked into a nearby alleyway. Or at least what the locals would have called an alley. Everything out West was so spread out compared to New York. You could race horses down this alley, it was so wide. Pulling the bandana across the bridge of his nose, he tied a firm double knot across the back of his head. The black and white cotton draped down to cover his mouth and hide his identity. 

Reaching out with his hand, he let his fingers hang in the air just a whisper from the surface of the wall. He could feel his finger being pulled gently toward the rough red brick. It felt like a toy magnet he had been given as a child, but warmer, with a barely perceptible static electric tingle. Then, quicker than a hiccup, Peter was more than halfway up the wall scampering on all fours. Peter thought that it was strange how quickly the human mind could transition from an idea being unthinkable to something becoming second nature. Once at the age of nine, Peter had tried to impress Mary Jane Watson by climbing a tree to save a cat. It resulted in the fire brigade being called to save both the cat and a terrified nine-year-old. As he pulled himself onto the roof, he looked down from his perch four stories above the street and reflected on how he was now three times as high as that little tree in Queens. 

The first time Peter had gone out looking for trouble, he had spent seven long uneventful hours posted up outside the Queens Library. The greater New York area could easily fill an entire mail order catalogue with its various types of criminal, corrupt and otherwise wicked individuals. Peter however wasn’t exactly predisposed to misconduct, nor social enough to even know where one might go to engage in such activity. A wholesome upbringing and bookish demeanor had initially proven to be a real impediment to Peter’s war on the criminal element. 

When morning arrived, Peter crawled down from the roof of the library and went directly through the front door. Peter was a scientist and, as a scientist, believed all problems could be solved through a judicious application of research and analysis. Scouring through stacks and stacks of the various daily newspapers, he made maps and charts of crime across the city. He found the Daily Bugle to have the most detailed accounting of crime and the most fearless reporting of the various kingpins. Now with almost a year of experience spread across almost every major settlement west of the Rockies, finding trouble had become second nature to Peter. 

As he ran along the rooftop, Peter knew where to head. Criminals usually were on the lookout for one of three things: a drink, a dame, or something to rob. On cities by the sea, that meant the docks. Even the most pious of towns always kept a bar or a brothel by the docks to entertain the sailors and convince captains to make port. Loose crates and drunk men provided easy targets for crooks. A big port like Oakland was bound to have plenty of Peter’s special brand of “dance partners”. 

Peter was almost to the dock when a series of angry shouts drew his attention to a nearby alley. Making his way across the roof of a dark warehouse, he could see what looked like three sailors surrounded on both sides by ten men armed with clubs and knives. The sailors had obviously been taken off guard, and even though they were outmatched, looked ready to fight. Both groups were totally unaware that directly above them, a stranger was watching this entire drama unfold. Lost in his own thoughts about how strange it was that people never really looked up, Peter had neglected to notice that the gang had closed in and began to waylay the loudly cursing sailors. 

Pressing his middle and ring fingers into his palm, he felt the new trigger of his web-shooters smoothly engage. With a soft “thwip”, a stream of webbing sprung out of the thin brass tube mounted to the underside of his wrist and adhered to the back of the nearest crook. Jerking back hard on the web, Peter was pulled toward the group faster than he would have been able to fall while simultaneously lifting the much larger man up off his feet. The two met some four feet off the ground with Peter’s boot dislocating the man’s jaw with an audible “snap”. 

While the sailors were doing better than Peter expected, the overwhelming odds were even more obvious at ground level. All three of the sailors were bloody. Some of which was from the gang that jumped them, but most of it their own. Likewise, they were clearly more sober than either the gang or Peter expected them to be. With all the attention focused on the sailors, Peter made easy work of the first three hoods before the rest turned to acknowledge the new threat. Even though he was the smallest man in that alley by an easy forty pounds, Peter punched harder than a mule could kick. When his fist met a face, blood sprayed across brick walls and broken teeth skittered across the dark pavement. 

The tide had clearly turned, and the few assailants still standing began to beat a hasty retreat down the alley, leaving their unconscious friends behind. As the last of the attackers stumbled around the corner, the alley was once more quiet. Peter and two of the sailors stood with their backs to each other, panting, and surrounded by a circle of prone and bleeding men. Some ten feet away, a small collection of tin trash cans gave a soft rattle and a cough. Striding confidently up to the can, Peter lowered his voice to what could only generously be called a caricature of baritone. “I knew you were criminal trash, but this is a little on the nose even for me, buddy. Why not come out and get your beating like a man?” 

Without warning, a sailor with a face smeared with grease paint, leapt to his feet from behind the trash cans screaming, “Not in the face!” and leveled a gun directly at Peter’s chest. Holding out his hand to calm down what he realized was one of the terrified sailors, Peter was unable to speak before the gun barked out six loud shots. 

Even at this close range, Peter’s preternatural reflexes spun his body in such a way that the shots sailed just shy of his very not bulletproof wool sweater. The sailor was still screaming and pulling the trigger on the empty gun when Peter casually walked over and took the weapon from the hysterical sailor. “Take it easy there, Jesse James. We’re all friends here.” 

Stuffing the gun into his belt, Peter rolled his eyes and turned to the other two sailors. Even in the unlit alley, the moon cast just enough light to see the steam rising from the three holes the bullets had punched through one of the sailors. 

Running over to the injured man, Peter could hear over his shoulder, “Oh God, oh God, Wade! I didn’t mean it.” 

The dark skinned sailor was pressing his hand over one of the wounds, but it was clear that it would not be enough. Taking the sailors bloody hands off his friend, Peter held them in his own. “Hi, what’s your name?” 

With his voice cracking, the man replied, “I...I...I am Dopinder.” 

Peter tried to keep his voice calm even though he too was close to panic. “I can help him, Dopinder. I know a doctor. Will you let me help him?” The sailor nodded vigorously, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Pulling the man gently over his shoulder, Peter stood and adjusted his human cargo. The man from the trash had grabbed one of the crooks’ abandoned clubs and waved it furiously at Peter. “Let him go, you freak!” 

Once more, Peter froze and prepared to explain himself, but Dopinder sprinted by him, his hand clenched around a trash can lid. “This is all your fault, you filthy fuck!” screamed Dopinder as he beat a man Peter had thought was his friend with the lid. Knowing he had little time to save this man, Peter shot a web at the nearest roof and swung as fast as he could back to the circus. 

Chapter 2.5 

“Fuck, Dopider! Knock it off. Fuck, I’m sorry!” 

Dopider wielded the flimsy trash can lid like some unholy spirit of vengeance. Each hit ringing out with a clownishly loud “Clang” as it connected with various parts of Weasel’s head and torso. “You’re sorry? You’re sorry!? You shot Wade! Why were you hiding behind the garbage with a gun?” 

Doing his best to dodge the flurry of blows, Weasel searched for an excuse, but could only squawk out, “Ouch! Shit! Because I’m a coward; everyone knows that!” 

Dopinder paused, appalled. Pulling the heavily dented can lid back for a new series of strikes, he was interrupted by the sight of the masked man swinging into the night sky with Wade on his shoulder. 

Their dispute temporarily forgotten, both men stood and silently gaped at the fading sight of the mystery man and their friend disappearing into the night. For a moment, it was as if the entire city was still. Dopinder took in a deep breath through his nose to steady his frayed nerves. Turning to Weasel, he asked, “What smells like cream pies and urine?” 

Without turning, Weasel said, “My pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opening Quote is from "Captain America: Man out of Time" By Mark Waid


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“Don’t you just love the scientific method?”

-Dr. Curtis Conners

Wade’s senses straggled back to him like drunks tumbling out of a tavern at closing. His thoughts were scattered and it was unclear how much time had passed between them. Maybe minutes, maybe days. Unable to move, Wade didn’t know if he was restrained, paralyzed, or if he had simply forgotten how to make his body move. He opened his eyes briefly, but was met with a painful, bright light, and hastily closed them. His mouth and throat were dry to the point where his lips stuck to his teeth and his tongue felt like sandpaper. The air around him was hot and wet. 

Forcing his eyes open once more, Wade’s head turned instinctively away from the bare bulb that swung slowly above him. Light danced across a strange assemblage of jars stacked messily throughout the room, each filled with a sickly looking liquid that obscured the vaguely animal shapes floating inside them. Elsewhere in the room, he could make out the unsettling sounds of cracking bones and messy slurping. On a nearby stool, a cat cleaned its paw and paid no mind to Wade. The faint squeak of a rat somewhere nearby drew the cat’s immediate attention, and it hopped from the stool to investigate. Unable to move his head, Wade followed the cat with his eyes as far as he could. As the cat passed out of the edge of his vision, Wade noticed a massive clawed hand reach down and grab the animal. 

Adrenaline flooded into Wade’s veins as his body responded to the instinctual terror of a nearby predator. His mind demanded that Wade spring to action and either escape or prepare to defend himself. The best he was able to muster was to awkwardly tumble off his table to the hard straw-covered floor below. Frantically clawing at the ground, Wade struggled to crawl away. Moving with all the competence and urgency of a newborn calf, Wade failed to notice the growing shadow that had fallen across his path. Strong hands grasped Wade’s shoulders and forced him onto his back. Looking up, Wade was now face to face with a hulking reptilian beast. An impossibly long slick pink tongue slid out of the monster’s mouth, tasting the air. Wade’s mind raced between thoughts of death and believing he was already in hell. Grabbing Wade by the sides, the Lizardman lifted him off the ground with all the ease a child picks up a doll. Struggling as best as he could, the weakened Wade was no match for this nightmare. 

Tenderly placing Wade back onto the table, the monster then retrieved a pair of glasses and carefully balanced them on his scaled snout. “Ahh good, you have finally decided to wake up! The others bet me you would be dead by now, but I knew if you made it past that first night, it was only a matter of time before you would be back on your feet.” 

There was no way to know if Wade passed out due to shock or exertion, but as his head hit the table, the Lizard could not help but worry that he had indeed lost the bet. 

***

As Wade awoke once more, he heard voices arguing near the foot of his table. Unlike the first time, his mind was immediately clear. Remembering his earlier encounter with the monster, he held his body still until he could be sure of his situation.

“Doc, why does he have stitches in his head! What did you do to his head?!” a distressed male voice said.

It was answered by a deep voice with a slight hissing lisp. “Well, Peter, our guest woke up quite suddenly and found the shock of me a bit too much. I think we can both agree, first impressions are not my forte.” 

The first person—Peter apparently—made an annoyed noise under his breath. “I thought I told you to come get me when he started to come around, you were supposed to watch him.”

“I told you I have a number of experiments that require my attention. I can’t simply dedicate my valuable time playing nursemaid to unconscious vagabonds. As my lab assistant, it was Skink’s job to watch him” 

“Skink is a cat!”

“A very responsible cat! Regardless, this man has endured a great deal more than a gentle knock on the head. If he woke up once, he will most likely wake up again.” 

The fear that had once frozen Wade in place had been replaced with an annoyed impatience at being forced to listen to the two voices bicker. Propping himself up on his elbows, he blinked in surprise to find a slim young man wagging a finger at a seven and a half foot tall lizard. “Mystery is solved, fellas.., I’m awake, so go ahead and eat me or whatever,” he said, squinting his eyes to see through the dimly lit room.

The two strangers snapped their heads around to look at him and replied in confused unison, “Excuse me?”

“Eat me, dissect me, or do whatever strangeness you’re clearly into. Just do it quietly, if you could. My head is killing me.” He winced and dropped his head back down onto the hard wood of the table .

The young man rounded the end of the table slowly, holding out a hand. “Hello, sorry for waking you. I’m Peter. I can promise you we’re not into any sort of ‘strangeness’….” 

“Untrue,” said the Lizard. 

“...And we would never do anything that could possibly harm you,” Peter assured him, hand still outstretched.

“Except all the dicey stuff we already did,” the Lizard muttered under his breath. 

Shooting his reptilian comrade a withering look, Peter continued, “I don’t know if you remember all the business in the alley, but you were in a pretty bad shape. I brought you back here to Doc Conners.”

Wade was unconvinced but also too tired to care, Wade let his legs off the table and used the force of their fall to lift him languidly into a sitting position to look them both in the face. “How am I not dead? I had a gut full of lead that should have punched my ticket.”

The Lizard proudly strode forward with what could only be a smug expression, (if a lizard can look smug) and gave a polite bow. “Ahhh yes, well, you see, that is where I come into the tale. My name is Dr. Curtis Conners, and I am a physician of some repute…”

“Infamy,” coughed Peter into his sleeve.

“...And your medical situation gave me a chance to apply scientifically sound but untested…”

“Wild shots in the dark,” interjected Peter.

“...Procedures. Sound, but admittedly untested procedures. But as you can both see, they have worked perfectly. While I refuse to fish for praise, in this situation praise is undoubtedly due, since, as the gentleman pointed out, he was putting the key in death's door, and there is not another single physician, scientist, medicine man, or shaman who stood a chance at keeping him among the living.” 

Wade nodded politely as the Doctor continued to discuss the procedure. It was a very involved description that Wade had trouble following due to his inability to focus on anything other than the animal slick lipless maw of the Doctor. 

“....So you see, while the reptilian tissues will accelerate healing, you may experience some decreased inhibitions and possible impulse control,” continued the Doctor. 

“That’s all very interesting, but why are you a talking crocodile?” asked Wade, who while outwardly calm was desperate for any excuse to not scream in terror. .

“I am going to chalk your bluntness up as a case of those lowered inhibitions. I suppose it is a reasonable inquiry given my unique ‘situation’,” responded the Doctor.

Butting in, Peter explained with a boyish grin, “Doc couldn't get approval to test some of his theories, so he experimented on himself, and now he is a giant lizard.” 

The reptilian equivalent of a frown spread across Doc’s face. “Well, that is a bit overly reductive, but not wholly incorrect. While my theories proved to be successful, they did carry with them some rather significant side effects that estranged me to the scientific community and, truth be told, society at large. The circus has provided me an opportunity for gainful employment and the luxury to continue my work”. An intimidatingly clawed hand gestured to the room filled with scientific oddities, most of which Wade could only guess the use of. 

Looking down at his own hands with a growing sense of paranoia, Wade inquired, “So, will I uhhh... am I going to turn into a giant lizard, too?”

Peter and Doc looked at each other before Doc emphatically declared, “No, certainly not.”

“Probably not,” added Peter clearly guessing.

“Yes, well, there are no absolutes in life, but if you were going to transform, you most likely would have done so by now.” 

Wade’s face must have shown the distress that was building within him, because Doc hurriedly added, “Let us focus on the positives. You are  _ alive,  _ which, as we established, was far from a given a week ago. Your wounds have completely—” 

Wade cut off the doctor abruptly, “A WEEK?! I’ve been out a week?!” 

Indignant at being interrupted, Doc visibly flustered. “Sir, I will have you know that I have accomplished in a week what would have taken the medical establishment the better part of a year! A little gratitude would not be out of order.” 

Wade’s head sagged. “No, you’re right, thanks are in order. I appreciate everything. It’s just that my ship was only supposed to be in dock for three days. Everything I own, my whole life was on that ship.” 

Peter hopped up onto the table next to Wade and put his arm on his shoulder. “Your friends were very concerned about you. They wanted to take you with them, but your condition was too precarious. If we had let them take you back to the ship, chances are you would have died out at sea. They brought your things here. We kept them safe.” 

The look on Wade’s face did not change. 

“Peter, this likely isn’t about the contents of a sailor’s duffle. Any chance he had feeling normal steamed out of port four days ago. Am I correct, Mr. Wilson?” Conners asked.

Remaining silent, Wade lifted his eyes to meet the reptilian gaze of the Doc. His eyes were utterly alien and yet clearly expressed a deep sympathy. “I intimately understand what it feels like to be greeted with horror in the eyes of strangers. How precious it is to have a group, no matter how small, that accepts you as normal.” The truth of the words cut deep, and Wade clinched his eyes shut in an attempt to fight back the inevitable tears. Doc continued, “I know you have been asked to digest a great deal in a shockingly short amount of time. Most men would have fainted at the very sight of me…”

“He did faint at the sight of you, Doc,” Peter pointed out, hopping down from the table..

“Not helping, Parker. The point is, you have an adaptability about you, a certain flexibility of the spirit that we circus folk can work with. Perhaps you might consider staying here with us at the circus. What do you say, Mr. Wilson?” 

Peter leaned over and whispered into the hole that Wade guessed was Doc’s ear, “Did you clear this with Beck?” 

Doc turned his face away despite the fact that his reptilian maw prevented anyone from even attempting to read his lips. “Beck only cares about money. All we need is to show him that our patient can earn his keep.” 

Peter thought for a moment, eyes trained on Wade in an obvious moment of evaluation. “Well, if Boomerang could be taught how to be a knife thrower, I’m guessing this guy couldn’t be much worse.” 

The pair turned back toward Wade, and Conners asked, “What do you say? Ready to enter show business?” 

Wade was already smiling, as neither Peter or the Doctor was particularly good at whispering. “Don’t have any better offers, do I?” 

“Fantastic!” exclaimed Doc, clapping his clawed hands with a dull smack. “Peter will take care of all the particulars of lodging, travel, etc. I will make sure The RingMaster, Mr. Beck, is informed that we have found our new knife thrower in training. In the meantime, I must ask that you come back daily so that I may check back on your condition. While you are in no danger of transforming into lizard, the procedure is still highly experimental and accelerated your immune system and metabolism well past what would be considered normal. We will need to keep a close eye on you.”

Hopping down from the table, Wade held out his hand, which the shocked Doc Conners shook with a toothy smile. “Whatever you say, Doc. Thanks for saving my life.”

“Welcome to the circus, Mr. Wilson.” 

Peter bowed next to Conners and swung his arm out toward the door of the medical tent. “Follow me and let’s get you all settled.” 

Wade and Peter were walking toward the door when an the absent-minded Doc shouted out almost as an afterthought, “Oh and Mr. Wilson, if you start developing symptoms like tooth pain, a scaly rash, multiple eyelids, or an inexplicable appetite for rodents, please come back and see me right away.” 

Wade shot him a look and followed Peter out of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opening Quote is from "Captain America: Man out of Time" By Mark Waid


End file.
